


If you try sometimes, you get what you need

by guavamindedprofessor



Category: X-Men: Days of Future Past (2014) - Fandom
Genre: Angst, M/M, The Rolling Stones - Freeform, cliches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-06
Updated: 2014-06-06
Packaged: 2018-02-03 15:23:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1749401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/guavamindedprofessor/pseuds/guavamindedprofessor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The plane scene continued, at the mansion.  Nothing explicit, much implied (I hope).  Go on, it's short.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If you try sometimes, you get what you need

**Author's Note:**

> This is my very first attempt at writing fic :P, comments gratefully welcome! My version of the Plane Scene aftermath. The plane didn’t work as a setting for me, had to make them go back to the mansion for a night between DC and Paris (sorry Kitty!). Probably off canon in many other details too, please forgive.

Hank gave Logan Storm’s room, or what would be Storm’s room in the future, for the night. It was full of dust. Eric got his room, and even though it wouldn’t actually be his room for another 30 years, he couldn’t help feeling vaguely pissed off. He’d air the place out, burn a sage bundle or something, as soon as he got back. “Back”? Well, whatever. He was exhausted. Why wasn’t he asleep yet, dammit?  
Ah, that’s why. He was waiting for that sound. Footsteps on the carpet, confident (asshole) but nevertheless barely audible (well-trained asshole). An old door hinge creaking once, twice. The abrupt tsschh of a lock sliding into place. Logan raised an eyebrow in the dark. Would love to be a fly on that wall, but really not his business was it? The Professor was still the Professor, he could handle himself, couldn’t he? Anyway, if he didn’t get some sleep now, he’d be less sharp tomorrow. He should sleep. But keep his ears open. Just in case. 

“You _were_ expecting me, weren’t you?”  
“I told you, no powers.”  
Sardonic eyebrow.  
A sigh. “Yes, I was expecting you.”  
Charles has only taken off his shoes and socks. He is sitting on the bed, fiddling with his watch strap. He nods towards the desk, where a half-full bottle of Scotch stands open. Erik walks over and pours out 2 glasses, 2 fingers each. He walks back and places a glass on the night stand. The frumpy easy chair with the broken spring slides behind Erik’s calves, and he sits down, stretching his legs towards the bed.  
“So,” he says, and takes a slow sip.  
“So.”  
“You look like shit, Charles.”  
“Yes.” Charles removes his watch, places it on the night stand. “Why are you here?”  
“You’re going to need your powers back, you know.”  
“Yes. But not tonight. I want to sleep, Erik. I need to sleep.”  
“This could be your last night in a body that works, Charles. And you really want to sleep?”  
“You selfish, selfish bastard. Your powers of self-justification really are amazing.”  
“As are your powers of denial and self-pity. Don’t wallow, Charles, it’s unattractive.”  
Charles laughs bitterly. “Get out.”  
Erik leans forward, fast and elegant as a cobra, until their foreheads are almost touching, but Charles doesn’t move. “Leave, Erik. Now.” Erik growls in frustration and grabs Charles’ face in both hands. “Come _on_ , Charles!”  
But Charles’ eyes are lasers, his knuckles are white gripping the side of the bed. “No,” he says, “Get out.”  
“Why?”  
Charles hisses in a breath. “Because I will explode. And I’m not sure what will come out. And I just want to sleep. Do you understand?”  
Suddenly, Erik pulls back. He looks puzzled. “You lied…”  
This startles Charles enough to exhale. “What?”  
“You said you lost your powers.”  
“I did.”  
“You’re in my head. Your voice, Charles. In my head.”  
“Really? What did I say?”  
“ _You can’t always get what you want._ Typical.”  
Charles laughs. “They had the radio on in the car. I guess they were playing the Stones. That wasn’t me, my friend.”  
“The what?”  
“Ah, yes, you’ve been locked up for a while. Must have missed the Rolling Stones. Ha! I don’t know which is more absurd, that you have a conscience, or that it sounds like Mick Jagger.”  
“No, it sounds like you, Charles.” Erik isn’t budging. Charles closes his eyes, he feels weary to the bone.  
Suddenly, Erik’s hands are on his thighs, he feels hot breath through his jeans.  
“Why will you never just take what you want, Charles? It makes me crazy.”  
Charles wonders if this is what an out-of-body experience feels like, this sudden zoom-out from his own heart. He looks down at the sleek brown head on his lap. “It won’t just go away, my friend, these past 10 years. I don’t want … I really don’t. Please take your hands away.”  
Surprisingly, Erik does take his hands away. He sits back on his heels and looks Charles in the face. “You know I’m not wrong.”  
“No, you’re not wrong. You never are. That’s just utterly beside the point.”  
“Ah. Raven told me you - ”  
“No!” The word rips out of Charles’ mouth and twists around the room like one of Erik’s bullets. Charles can feel his stomach wrenching. He’s going to be sick. He grabs the whiskey glass and holds it pressed to his forehead until he can breathe again. He wants to take a drink, but he’s afraid he might bite the glass.  
“Get out.”  
“I’m sorry.”  
“Fine. Get out.”  
Erik stands up. “You really think I’m the self-righteous one?”  
“Just. Get. Out. Please.”  
Erik walks to the door, and Charles breathes out. He shuts his eyes tightly and waits. The door lock does not slide open.  
Instead, Erik leans his back against the door. Two quarters float slowly out of his pocket, and across the room. When he knows Charles can sense them in front of his face, but before he can react, a quarter presses gently against each of Charles’ eyelids. The metal is warm from Erik’s body, and smooth now, and heavy. After a minute, the quarters slide slowly down Charles’ cheeks, meld together, press against his lips.  
Charles will not open his eyes. There’s a rough thumb, so familiar, on his cheek now, wiping away a tear. He will not open his eyes, he will not move. The metal has floated away from his lips, and Erik’s thumb is there now, he can smell the salt. If he can just control his breathing, maybe he can make his skin thicker, make it stop, the heat and the salt and the softness that he cannot stand.  
The buttons of his Levis are sliding out of their holes of their own accord.  
“Bastard. Get –“  
There’s a voice in his head. It’s Erik’s of course, because irony, a horrible, intense, black irony manufactured precisely for him, is what the world has been all about since Logan knocked on the door this morning. And the voice is saying, “Fuck it. Let go. LET GO.”  
His eyes snap open. He laughs from the very back of his throat, and bears his teeth. 

Logan wakes with a start to the sound of the radio alarm. _I saw her today at the reception, in her glass was a bleeding man…_ The sun is pouring through the thin curtains. He rolls over to turn the radio off, and the metal dial burns his finger.


End file.
